


you were my versailles at night

by kissteethstainred



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: HAPPY BIRTHDA Y LILY!!!!!!! HAPPY BDA Y GIRL, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Oh Ian my poor boy, Pining, Season 2, Season 2 Era, Teen Angst, cause i chickened out on writing actual smut lmao, ily lily, l(ily), ummmmm what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 16:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3985504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissteethstainred/pseuds/kissteethstainred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian hadn’t expected much of the summer. Work at the Kash and Grab, hang out with Lip and Mandy, help out Fiona around the house when he could, fuck Mickey, and try not to procrastinate on summer assignments. Mickey working at the Kash and Grab blew that all away, because suddenly Ian’s life revolved around Mickey like Ian had never known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you were my versailles at night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iandebbie (osborns)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/osborns/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY LILY! As per your request, here is a season 2 fic, and I hope it's up to your standards! I'm so glad we've met and become friends, and if you don't know [Lily](http://romeanoff.tumblr.com/), she's beautiful and funny and amazing, and everyone should go wish her a happy birthday :)
> 
> It's 11, I'm SO tired, and I still need to do all of my homework, so this is really unbeta'd. Any mistakes are my own!

Mickey’s first day at the Kash and Grab wasn’t so much of a disaster as it was inefficient.

Mickey just stood there, leaning against the glass case by the register, and eyed the people who walked in. His eyes followed everyone around the store, and when they finally reached the register, he stood a little taller and glared at them in intimidation. Most customers looked uncomfortable, maybe a little ruffled, but they ignored Mickey.

It wasn’t until some kid tried to leave the store without paying for his two Gatorade bottles that it hit Ian: no one knew what Mickey was actually doing there.

“Something needs to change,” Ian said when they were closing up. Well, he was closing up, while Mickey just stood there, but Ian knew it was because Mickey didn’t know what to do.

“I told you workin’ here wasn’t gonna fuckin’ work,” Mickey said. He was already pulling out a cigarette—he was upset because they weren’t allowed to smoke in the store, but Linda’s rules—and lighting it.

“I _meant_ ,” Ian said, ignoring Mickey’s comment. Ian could hardly believe he even got Mickey to work at the Kash and Grab, and he wasn’t going to let Mickey quit now. “We gotta establish that you work here now.”

Mickey said, “Yeah, whatever,” as Ian locked the Kash and Grab, and to Ian’s surprise, Mickey walked with Ian back home.

\--

The next day, Mickey showed up in a dark blue vest that had SECURITY printed on the front. Ian covered up his laugh with a cough, forcing himself not to smile at Mickey’s scowl, but the next teenager that came into the shop and tried to steal something ended up dropping the chips bag to the floor because he got so scared at Mickey’s, “Don’t even fuckin’ try it.”

In a week’s time, Linda gave Ian a grudging, “Milkovich works well at this store.”

By the third week, Linda was giving Mickey more appreciative glances than regretful ones. Linda was happy, Mickey’s probation officer was happy, Ian was happy, and since Mickey was getting fucked on a regular basis in the freezer, Ian assumed he was happy.

\--

Ian hadn’t expected much of the summer. Work at the Kash and Grab, hang out with Lip and Mandy, help out Fiona around the house when he could, fuck Mickey, and try not to procrastinate on summer assignments. Mickey working at the Kash and Grab blew that all away, because suddenly Ian’s life revolved around Mickey like Ian had never known. Mickey was there at the Kash and Grab in the mornings when Ian came to unlock it, and they hung around the store all day.

They couldn’t not talk to each other, and whatever Mickey had kept hidden before juvie wasn’t exactly coming out, but he was slowly getting looser. Ian’s prying questions weren’t met with as many tense remarks anymore, sometimes even answered so casually that Ian was sure that they were getting somewhere.

Ian hadn’t been this close to Mickey in many ways—before, Ian might have known the way Mickey spoke or the way he moaned, the way the muscles in his back moved underneath Ian as they fucked—and now something even as small as Mickey’s laugh made Ian’s stomach turn. Ian hadn’t really heard Mickey’s laugh before—maybe a small, breathless laugh after having sex—but not like this, not head thrown back and stomach heaving. Ian hadn’t known he’d been able to make Mickey laugh like this. Ian could now categorize the different scowls on Mickey’s face, and the way he stretched as a signal that he was bored, and just . . . so many new things that Ian sometimes couldn’t handle it.

Surely people didn’t think that he was smiling this much at a _job_.

\--

There was a certain beauty to fucking in the freezer, and something entirely else in fucking at the dugouts.

The freezer was easy and convenient, a couple of steps away and then pants were being pulled down, Mickey’s tongue pressed between his teeth as he grinned, and Ian’s fingers clumsily fumbling for the lube hidden on one of the shelves. The freezer was cold in the hot summer, and when the store got too hot, Mickey would glance at Ian and then the freezer. They could be done within minutes, without Linda ever knowing, and afterwards, as Ian sat at the register and Mickey walked around, Mickey would give Ian these looks. Long, appreciative looks, and when Ian met his gaze, Mickey would get this small smirk on his mouth, but he wouldn’t say anything about it. There was always something hurried about sex in the freezer, some tiny tick at the back of their minds that said _hurry up_. It was easily ignored in favor of the way Mickey gasped “Fuck—” as Ian fucked him.

The dugouts were Ian’s favorite though. There was no hurry to be anywhere else, because Mickey and Ian usually snuck over to the dugouts late in the night, laughing and chasing each other, getting drunk or high. The summer nights were hot, heat lingering over from the day on the concrete of the dugouts, and Ian could feel it, sticking to his skin. More often than not, Ian and Mickey didn’t fuck at the dugouts—they got drunk or high and talked, or Mickey quietly sucked on a cigarette as Ian talked about West Point. That’s what surprised Ian about the dugouts, too. During the day, Mickey would joke and talk, but he usually got pensive during the dugouts at some point, eyes tracing the lines and bases on the baseball field. Other nights they would be loud, messing around and tackling each other, but those nights were the ones that usually ended in them fucking.

Fucking at the dugouts was almost an overstimulation to Ian. The hot nights made fucking sticky and sweaty, more so than usual, but Ian would watch sweat run down the lines of Mickey’s back and get a faint rush of dizziness from how fucking attractive it was. Mickey was louder at the dugouts, worry about Linda or someone else hearing out of his mind, and his low grunts would turn into full-moans, quiet curses turned into drawn out and breathy words. Ian could drag it out, too, there wasn’t any pressure to hurry. Mickey liked it hard and fast, Ian knew—but Mickey also liked it slow and leisurely, Ian’s hands holding Mickey’s hips tightly as Ian slowed his thrusts, and Mickey’s breaths seemed so loud Ian thought they were the only sound that mattered.

Afterwards, Mickey moved away relatively quickly, but some nights, Mickey stayed rather close, elbows and shoulders brushing every time they talked, and Ian could smell the scent of sweat and sex on Mickey’s skin.

He never wanted to kiss Mickey more than on those nights.

\--

Mickey became a sort of routine that Ian could get used to.

Fiona’s summer routine was trying out new working opportunities, always pushing for new goals, so she was always out of the house. Lip’s routine involved chasing after Karen, no matter how much Ian tried to warn him. Debbie, Carl, and Liam all hung around the daycare, trying to earn as much money as them.

Sometimes Ian wished he had Lip’s life. Lip shot off in school, ready to be praised for practically no work at all because his brain just _clicked_. He hardly earned money for the family—he hardly truly _worked_ —because he could sell weed or perform scams. He always had leisurely time to play with his robotics trinkets, and never mind how much time he had to chase after Karen. Never mind how Lip _could_ chase after Karen.

Ian couldn’t chase after Mickey. He wanted to—god, he fucking wanted to—but he knew that it would be crossing a line that Ian shouldn’t cross. Mickey had become really close to Ian this summer, and although Ian wanted more—he always wanted more, he couldn’t help it—he knew it wasn’t worth the risk. Mickey was just beginning to drop his walls, although with a little more boundaries, but he was opening up.

It was hard, though. Some days Ian actually felt so much sympathy for Lip’s feelings for Karen because Ian looked at Mickey, wanted so much, and knew it couldn’t happen. Mickey began wearing more tank tops from the heat, and Ian began staring at Mickey’s arms more while Mickey moved boxes around the store, or as he did pull ups at the dugouts. Sometimes Ian would watch a drop of sweat run down Mickey’s neck under his tank top, and Ian would imagine taking the tank top off and running his tongue up the muscles of Mickey’s back, tasting the salt from the sweat. Everything was so tantalizing—the sweat collecting at the bottom of Mickey’s hairline, the way Mickey’s lips were always chapped and his tongue would lick his bottom lip, the shape of his lips around a cigarette. Ian knew he was staring because Mickey would roughly say, “What the fuck’re you starin’ at me for?” and Ian would have to force himself not to flush, coming up with a quick comment that they quickly ignored.

Mickey knew. Of course he fucking knew, he wasn’t stupid. Mickey had to see Ian’s desperation from the way Ian held onto him while they fucked, he had to see Ian’s thirst as Ian followed the line of Mickey’s throat as he drank beer, he had to see the way Ian was always following his lips was something that felt more than desire, even to Ian.

But they both ignored it. They had to, otherwise this fragile truce they’d come up with would be broken, and they both knew that if it was broken, there wouldn’t be a _them_ anymore.

Ian wondered if Mickey ever regretted it. He wondered if Mickey thought about the first times they’d fucked, when Mickey had snapped “ _Kiss me and I’ll cut your fuckin’ tongue out_ ,” and Ian wondered if Mickey regretted saying it in quick defense and panic. He wondered if Mickey ever stared at Ian’s mouth, thinking, _fuck, I wish I could kiss him_ , and remembered those harsh words and held back.

Because that’s what held Ian back. He wasn’t sure if Mickey cared for them much, anymore, and he knew Mickey wanted it sometimes—he and Mickey would be talking at the dugouts, standing right in each other’s personal space, body language saying _only for each other_ , and Mickey’s eyes wouldn’t leave Ian’s face. Ian knew, the same way Mickey knew.

But they didn’t do anything. Sometimes, Ian thought it was worse than not knowing Mickey at all.

\--

“You haven’t shaved in a while,” Ian murmured against Mickey’s jaw.

“Thinkin’ about growin’ out a beard,” Mickey said in response, breath hitching when Ian scraped his teeth along a spot on Mickey’s jaw. There were four bruises on Mickey’s neck, in the shape of large fingerprints, and one print that looked suspiciously like a thumbprint on Mickey’s collarbone. Ian felt irrationally angry—he knew what Mickey’s father was like—but he wanted this, he wanted the bruises to be made from pleasure, not pain.

Ian huffed a laugh against Mickey’s neck. “A beard?” he repeated, moving his mouth lower to suck on Mickey’s neck. He wanted to leave a bruise of his own, but he knew he couldn’t—Mickey’s father could see, which was always a scary thought, but Ian also knew Mickey would be annoyed by it. Ian didn’t own Mickey, he couldn’t mark Mickey, no matter how much he wanted to.

Mickey flipped them so suddenly, Ian’s thighs hitting the back of the concrete wall, that Ian had to grip onto Mickey’s arm harder so he didn’t fall. “You don’t like it?” Mickey said, raising an eyebrow. Their faces were extremely close, noses inches apart, and Ian wondered if Mickey knew exactly how flirtatious his tone was.

Ian reached his hand up and touched Mickey’s neck lightly, right where the shadow of his beard began. Mickey’s throat worked, but he didn’t say anything as Ian ran his thumb along Mickey’s jaw, turned Mickey’s head side to side to examine his growing beard. “I think I do,” Ian said. He leaned forward to press a kiss to the side of Mickey’s neck, and then another a little lower. The stubble prickled his lips in a way that almost tickled.  

Mickey shifted, exhaling loudly, and Ian knew he’d crossed a line there, doing something too close to tenderness, so Ian knew the shift that was going to take place before Mickey even reached for Ian’s belt.

“Alright, I like the beard,” Ian said shakily, still breathing heavily from the blowjob Mickey just gave him. Mickey gave a breathy laugh.  

\--

Ian wondered what was so different between the two; he wondered why Mickey would allow something so intimate as kissing his neck, sucking on it, but wouldn’t allow their lips to touch. Ian himself couldn’t see the difference, maybe it was something only Mickey could see, but all Ian could remember was something he’d overheard girls whispering about once: whatever’s forbidden is desired more.

Maybe, once ( _if_ ) Ian actually kissed him, he would see the difference, too.

\--

Mickey was with his father in Wisconsin for some type of scam, and Mandy had summer school, so Ian was pretty alone during the day. Ian was bored while working, and he wanted to be doing anything but stacking cans in a perfect row. His eyes kept wandering to the clock, waiting for Mandy to get out of summer school, but every time he looked at the clock, time seemed to move slower.

Ian noticed that people didn’t even try stealing much, as if they didn’t notice Mickey’s absence, or if they did, it didn’t matter much.

It mattered a lot to Ian. He stared at Mickey’s usual space, right next to the glass case, but he didn’t magically appear.

Fuck, this was so stupid. How could Ian like someone this much? How could he like _Mickey_ this much? Every instinct that Mickey had told Mickey not to get close to Ian, and everything Mickey told _Ian_ was to not get close—don’t even _try_ to get close. And Ian had tried, he really had, but here he was, fingers drumming against the wood of the register counter, thinking about Mickey goddamn Milkovich. No one had come in for at least ten minutes, and Ian was going out of his mind from boredom.

Linda’s sharp voice came through the walkie, and Ian sighed before answering. “Yes, Linda?”

“Could you come up here? I need some help.”

Ian locked up the store quickly before heading upstairs. Linda was in the bedroom, hands on her large belly, and she raised her hand out to Ian. Ian grabbed her hand and helped her stand up, and then helped her waddle over to the bathroom down the hall. She had never commented on how Ian knew where the bathroom was the first time they’d done this, and Ian was glad for it.

Ian stayed outside the door while she peed, just in case anything happened, but he eyed the pictures on the walls and wondered about Kash, suddenly. He wondered if Kash was living with guilt, or if he was finally free and happy. Ian wasn’t too sure which one he hoped Kash felt.

The door opened next to him, and Linda came out, fingers adjusting her scarf. She noticed Ian staring at the picture of Kash and her family and made a small sighing noise. “Oh, Ian,” she said, turning down the hall. Ian frowned behind her, wondering what she was thinking—she didn’t actually believe Ian thought like that anymore, right?

Linda went back into the bedroom, where her bed was scattered with papers. She sat back down in her spot and looked at Ian critically, in a way that she hadn’t ever before. “I thought that after Kash your taste in men would improve.”

“I don’t—”

“Fool me once, Ian, shame on me.” Linda winced as she moved back against the pillows. “I can’t even believe you thought you could fool me twice. I mean, you two use the same _freezer_.”

Ian could feel his face burning. He couldn’t think of anything to say except, “It’s different.”

“Oh, yes, I agree,” Linda said. “And it’s not that I don’t like Mickey. I do. What was at first my biggest nuisance has become a saint, basically. My theft rates have dropped to basically zero, and he’s efficient, and the recommendations I’m getting from his parole officer are a nice touch.” Linda sighed. “But for you, Ian, I don’t think he’s good for you.”

“We’re not doing much,” Ian said. _It’s just sex_ was on his tongue, but it felt weird to talk about this with Linda. And it hit Ian: Linda knew. Linda _knew_ , and hadn’t said anything.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” Linda explained. Her voice turned softer, something that Ian had only seen given to her children. “You want a lot, Ian. You are an ambitious boy with a lot of expectations, and I don’t fault you for any of that. I think they’re some of your most admirable traits. But what you want—even if you don’t want it now, then what you will want—from Mickey—” Linda shook her head. “He’ll never be able to give that to you, Ian. Not because he’s a bad person, but his family life, his social experiences—he’s too frightened.”

Ian thought about kissing, and then he thought maybe he wanted to sleep for ten years.

Linda sighed. “I know you wouldn’t want to hear this from me, and I doubt you’ll listen. But I just want you to be prepared for any type of heartbreak.” She nodded at him in that dismissive way of hers, so Ian said goodbye and headed for the door. He’s just turned the knob when Linda asked, “Mickey’s the reason you stopped seeing Kash, isn’t he?”

Ian closed his eyes, feeling his stomach churn nervously. It sounded so strange, phrased like that, like Ian had actively chosen Mickey over Kash, and it hadn’t been the awkward deterioration of Kash and Ian’s relationship due to their no-touching rule and Ian’s passion for Mickey. Mickey was certainly a catalyst, but to think in Linda’s way made it seem like Ian actually had relationships with Kash or Mickey, and Ian realized now he hadn’t—or didn’t, in Mickey’s case.

“Yeah,” Ian said, turning to face her.

“Then you’re in much more trouble than I thought, aren’t you?” Linda said.

If only she knew.

\--

Ian sat in bed, running his fingers over the cigarette packet that Mickey had left in Ian’s coat the other day. His fingertips traced the corners and edged, the smoother part of the brand name. Carl and Lip were already asleep, Carl’s small snores filling up the empty space, but Ian’s brain felt fuzzy and loud with Linda’s words. _Ian, I don’t think he’s good for you_. A part of Ian wanted to agree—he knew exactly what Lip would say if he found out about Mickey, he could already feel the judgement. Fiona would be shocked and just as judging. Mandy would be devastated and hurt, so it was out of the question there.

_Ian, I don’t think he’s good for you._

Then again, what the fuck did they know? What did Lip know about Ian’s dreams to get into West Point besides the equations Lip gave him in math? What did Fiona know about his social life besides working at the Kash and Grab? Who was Linda, his boss, to comment on Ian’s relationship? They didn’t know Mickey. They didn’t know how he listened to Ian, how he allowed Ian to take up space but was never afraid to push back. They didn’t know how it felt to be touched by Mickey, how it felt to touch Mickey, how it felt to have his eyes own Ian. They didn’t know Mickey’s fears or what Mickey wanted, and for fucking sure, they couldn’t even try to figure out Mickey Milkovich if they tried.

Ian’s fingers caught on the flap of the cigarette pack. Ian wondered if he could even figure out Mickey. He doubted that he could.

The phone bleeped from the desk. Ian contemplated whether or not he should get up, considering it was probably Karen anyways, but knew he was going to be awake anyways. When he opened the phone, there was an unknown number with the text: _d/o?_

Ian grinned, texted _on my way_ , deleted the message, and then began to change into different clothes.

\--

It kinda just happened.

Mickey had been lying back against the bottom stair leading into the dugouts, head leaning back against the step. It had to hurt his neck, but Mickey ignored it, and Ian watched his stomach fall and rise as he breathed. Mickey had that pensive mood about him again, but Ian didn’t mind, because Mickey’s legs were in Ian’s lap, and maybe the beer they’d shared earlier was still running through Ian’s body.

All Ian had done was shift, stopped leaning so hard on one hand and instead leaned back against the concrete wall. He’d put his hand on Mickey’s thigh because there really wasn’t any other place to put it, and Mickey’s eyes had shifted from the roof of the dugout to Ian.

Mickey leaned up on his elbows, eyebrows raised. Ian didn’t understand what was wrong until Mickey said, “What are you doin’?”

“What?”

“Your hand.”

“What about it?”

“What is it doin’?”

“It’s just resting?”

“On my thigh.”

“Uh, yeah. On your thigh,” Ian confirmed.

Mickey snorted. “Look, the only reason I want your hand on my thigh right now is if we’re goin’ for round two.”

Ian laughed, but it was easy to move, pushing Mickey’s legs off of Ian’s own but using them to pull Mickey closer. Mickey made a gruff, surprised noise at being pulled forward, hands slipping on the pavement, but his legs were pulled to either side of Ian’s waist.

“I’m just not quite sure if you’re ready for round two,” Ian said.

Ian could feel the tone shift between them—Mickey tilted his head back a bit, licking his bottom lip, and when Ian moved his hand up higher on Mickey’s thigh, his breath hitched in that tell-tale way of his.

“If you’re so ready, why are you just kneelin’ there and talkin’?” Mickey asked, voice low with anticipation, and Ian knew Mickey was trying to dare him into something here, that this was some type of game they played.

Ian would give. He slid his hand up higher on Mickey’s thigh, watching Mickey’s reaction, but all Mickey did was tighten his legs around Ian’s waist, pulling their groins closer together. Ian was already hard, but the feeling of Mickey’s hard cock brushing against Ian’s through their jeans made an excited anticipation run through Ian’s body. He felt reckless suddenly, happy, so much like a teenager it was ridiculous. Mickey’s gaze on him was hot, wanting, and Ian moved his hands over Mickey’s thighs a little, not reaching for Mickey’s zipper. Mickey glared at him, but Ian loved the feel of Mickey’s thighs under his hands, the way his hands spanned his thighs.

Mickey made a tiny pleased noise when Ian did reach for Mickey’s zipper, but once Ian unzipped it, he realized the problems he was going to have—Mickey’s legs would have to come away from Ian’s hips to be able to get Mickey’s jeans and boxers off, not to mention Ian still had to get his own clothes off, and he was kneeling. Mickey was watching him, looking confused and like Ian was weird, and Ian realized it was because he was just sitting there with his hand on Mickey’s crotch, staring at his hand.

Ian felt himself flush, embarrassed, and quickly pulled away. He stood quickly, embarrassment making his stomach hurt, and Mickey said, “What the fuck?” when his legs were suddenly dropped.

“That was—that was dumb, sorry, I—” Ian needed to leave, that’s what needed to happen right now, because Ian already ruined the moment, and everything was way too awkward.

“Where the fuck’re you goin’?” Mickey said, pushing himself to his feet. Ian trying to zip up his backpack, fingers clumsy and always dropping the zipper, and then Mickey grabbed Ian by the arms, turning him around. “You’re freakin’ out,” Mickey noted once Ian met his eyes, grip on Ian’s arms loosening.

“I’m not—”

“You are.” Mickey gave a short laugh. “Look, your execution was awful, but the idea was pretty nice.”

“The—did you just refer to me trying to have sex with you as _execution_?”

“What I’m sayin’ is,” Mickey said, moving closer so that their bodies brushed, “you should continue what you were gonna do, only this time, do it better.”

Ian considered it for a second, wondering when they got to a point where they weren’t immediately trying to fuck each other, no matter how awkward it got, and then used Mickey’s hands on Ian’s arms to flip them back around so that Mickey was pressed against the wall. Mickey had a particularly smug smile on his face, so Ian reached for his zipper and this time, yes, everything worked out well. It wasn’t until both of their pants were down to their ankles that Ian realized what Mickey meant by _the idea was pretty nice_ , because when Ian fumbled for the lube, Mickey didn’t turn around.

The pretty nice idea wasn’t sex, or a second round. It was facing each other while they fucked.

As it turns out, it was a very, _very_ nice idea.

\--

It swirled around in his head, sometimes. Ian remembered asking Lip what the difference between Monica leaving once for a long time and Frank leaving many times for short periods was, and Lip had said, “Not much,” but Ian had thought there _had_ to be. Surely there had to be differences between something so similar? Or maybe the Gallagher kids just never talked about it because how else could they go on? If they spent all their time thinking about Frank or Monica, they’d be—well, they’d be _Frank_.

But Ian saw the differences. Ian always saw the differences, and that’s what was driving him crazy with Mickey. Ian was allowed to touch Mickey in every way possible, had been intimate with Mickey on levels he hadn’t been with anybody else, but the minute Ian’s mouth moved close to Mickey’s, Ian was suddenly just a dick attached to a body.

Sometimes it made Ian want to punch a hole in the wall (he usually worked out instead). Mickey and Ian hung out constantly and always texted each other late at night and fucked each other and had long discussions on their families and fucked and Ian told things to Mickey he hadn’t told his family and Mickey brought food to the dugouts and they were exclusive.

They were dating, they were _boyfriends_.

And Mickey didn’t even realize it. He brought Ian food or beer and acted nonchalant about it, but it swirled around in Ian’s head. Or maybe Mickey did realize it, but he just didn’t want the label on it. That’s what mattered to Mickey—they could act a certain way, they could act like boyfriends, but it didn’t mean anything unless "boyfriend" was tacked on there.

“Your father would hurt you really bad if he found out about us fucking,” Ian said one night, giving a cigarette back to Mickey.

“What are you, some kinda fuckin’ idiot?” Mickey said harshly, breathing smoke out of his nose. “What you askin’ stupid fuckin’ questions for?” He changed the topic to a scam his family had coming up, and how he would be absent again, but it stuck in Ian’s mind. If his father found out that they were fucking, he’d hurt Mickey. If they found out that they were dating, he’d hurt Mickey. They were the same consequences, and if they were already risking one, why not risk the other?

Ian would then see the bruises on Mickey’s face or torso and feel guilt gnaw at him, that he would want more of that for Mickey, in a way. He realized that Mickey was already sacrificing a lot to even hang around Ian without implications, much less actually have sex with Ian.

Ian never said he wasn’t a selfish bastard.

\--

“You ever think about the future?” Ian asked.

“That’s a dumb fuckin’ question.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Obviously, because you asked it.” Mickey stole the joint from Ian’s fingers, and Ian’s fingers were too clumsy to try to stop him. “What does that even mean, thinkin’ about the future? Like, when I’m gonna shit next? What I’m gonna eat?”

Ian laughed, turning on his side. He was already so close to Mickey that their elbows brushed as they laid next to each other, and when he turned, his laugh was muffled in Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey didn’t comment on it, and Ian assumed it was the weed that allowed for that.  

“No, shut up. That’s fucking dumb.”

“You’re the one askin’ stupid questions about the future,” Mickey said, blowing some smoke at the end of the sentence as if to make a point. Ian watched Mickey’s cheeks hollow out a bit as he exhaled, mouth forming a small O.

“But you don’t, at all? Five years down the road or whatever?”

“What’s the point?"

“What’s the—I don’t know. I don’t think there’s a _point_. You just do.”

“Look, I gotta focus on getting through every day before I can even think about five years,” Mickey said.

“But then you’ll just be thinking about the days until five years have passed and you won’t have accomplished anything.

Mickey shifted a bit. His tone was angrier. “Fuck you. If I’m alive in five fuckin’ years, that’s my goddamn accomplishment.”

Ian’s stomach roiled. Mickey thinking like that, like he wasn’t going to last even five years, made Ian worry. Surely Mickey wasn’t that far gone, surely he hadn’t lost hope so quickly that he doubted his situation five years from now.

“There’s more than that.”

Mickey snorted. “You _think_ there is, but you don’t actually know.”

“What does that mean? I do.”

“No, you don’t.” Mickey seemed angrier now, body vibrating with tension. “You don’t want things, Ian. You just like runnin’ away.”

What the fuck? There was a small ache in his stomach, underneath his ribs. Ian’s breath came shorter in his lungs. “You’re wrong.”

“Oh yeah? Tell me about West Point, Ian. Tell me about how that’s not just you fuckin’ runnin’ away from all this shit.”

“What—you’ve—I’ve always wanted to go—”

“No, you only wanted to go because you’re good at workin’ out. You’re good at bein’ in shape, Ian, and you thought that because you were good, you could get out of here based on that. Do you really enjoy runnin’ around with a fuckton of equipment? Do you really like shootin’ guns?” Mickey took another drag, but it was Ian that suddenly felt like too much smoke had occupied his lungs. “You don’t. I fuckin’ guarantee you don’t. You just can’t handle bein’ fucking Southside, so you wanna run away—”

“Fuck you.” Ian’s eyes were blurring now, gaze unfocused, and he realized it was because he was tearing up. Ian sat up quickly so that Mickey wouldn’t see, head turned slightly away from him. “You don’t understand what it’s like—”

“To what? To _what_ , Ian?” Mickey snapped. “To be looked down upon? You think you got it fuckin’ bad? No one looks down on you, Ian.”

Ian laughed at that. “I’m a fucking Gallagher—”

“Whoop-de-fuckin’-do,” Mickey said flatly. “At worst, you get compared to Frank. In fact, that’s all people care about in regards to you Gallaghers. Frank is drunk all the time. Fiona is hot. Lip is smart. You hang around Lip, and then there are more of you. So what? There are a shit ton of Southside families with deadbeat fathers and wild siblings. Try being a fuckin’ Milkovich.  Try walkin’ into school and have everyone look down on you just because they heard your last name. Walk around the fuckin’ neighborhood and have people talk about you right behind your back. You watch as everyone gives up on you because they just don’t expect anything from you.” Mickey’s voice gets rougher. “You start believin’ it, too. You start—”

“That’s not true, _none_ of that is true,” Ian argued.

“Oh yeah? Look me in the face right fuckin’ now and tell me that the first time you saw Mandy, you didn’t think she was a slut,” Mickey said. Ian looked at Mickey, and there was something in his expression, something almost vengeful, something that just wanted to hurt.

“That’s not fair,” Ian protested, tongue clumsy in his mouth, and Mickey looked triumphant.

“I told you,” Mickey said, strangely breathless. “I bet you the first time you saw me, all you thought was that I was some low-life street rat—”

“You were trying to _beat me up_ —” Ian didn’t know why they were fighting, or how they had even gotten to fighting, but any semblance of a high he’d felt was gone suddenly, and Ian felt chilled.

“But you still thought all that shit,” Mickey argued.

“You can’t just—alright, sure, I thought all that stuff!” Ian admitted. His voice was raising with his frustration, but he didn’t know why Mickey was being like this. “But you can’t sit there and pretend like I’m different, like I didn’t—Mandy is my best fucking friend, Mickey, and you’re my—”

Ian stopped, feeling dread fill him. Mickey’s gaze was frozen on Ian, looking somewhere between angry and terrified. Ian needed to go before he did something drastic like cry or try to kiss him. And Ian hated him suddenly, hated how Mickey made him feel and how his stupid face looked and how all Ian wanted to say were hurtful things back. “Fuck you,” was all Ian said. “Fuck you, Mickey.” He pushed himself from the ground and headed home, pulled on his jacket and tugged the hoodie over his head.

It was still the middle of summer, but Ian still shivered as he walked home.

\--

Mickey didn’t speak to Ian when he walked into Kash and Grab the next day, but his eyes cut over to Ian, and his shoulders were tense.

The silence felt like it only expanded between them as the hours dragged by. Customers came and went, and Mickey would stare them down but Ian wouldn’t be laughing, or Ian would ring up a customer but Mickey would turn away at the sound of his voice instead of catching Ian’s eye.

This was the worst kind of torture.

Eventually, when the rush slowed down, Ian took out a couple or problems Lip had given him to practice his math skills. He could feel Mickey eyeing him, but whenever he looked up, Mickey was conveniently looking away.

If Ian was being honest, he didn’t have time for this. He opened his mouth to say something, but then someone pushed through the door, bell ringing. Ian and Mickey remained quiet, and the only words spoken were by Ian: “Five dollars twenty-three cents,” he said, and then the guy was leaving, bell signaling his farewell.

Ian waited until Mickey was relatively close to the register. He swallowed, mouth dry, and all he managed to do was choke out a “Mickey.”

Mickey’s head snapped up, obviously surprised that Ian had said anything at all.

“You . . .” Ian cleared his throat. “You didn’t have to come in today.”

“It’s my job,” Mickey said slowly.

Oh, god, small talk. Ian took a deep breath and said, “Yes, but . . . I mean you don’t have to work here if you don’t want to.” _If you don’t want to be around me_ , Ian didn’t say.

Mickey sighed. “I know I don’t have to work here, but I do it because you fuckin’ asked me to.”

There was another unbearable silence, except Ian and Mickey were staring at each other this time. Ian tried deciphering what Mickey’s statement meant, turning it over in his head, and he told Mickey softly, “You don’t always have to push me away.”

Mickey looked away quickly, watching the door as if he was hoping someone would walk in and distract the two of them from their conversation. His fingers drummed against the counter, and Ian followed the movement because staring at Mickey’s face was making his stomach squirm.

“You wanna get into West Point that bad, then?” Mickey asked, turning back to Ian. Ian was confused by the question, already feeling defensive about it, but he nodded. Mickey sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and then pushed away from the counter, walking over to Ian’s side.

He stopped right next to Ian, turning the math work towards him just slightly, and his eyes scanned the work Ian did. He was close enough that Ian’s shoulder was pressed into his arm, and when he kneeled down to help Ian with the work, Ian could just smell a trace of Mickey’s scent. Ian bit his lip and forced himself to concentrate. “Well, good thing I’m here, because your equations are shit,” Mickey said, and Ian sat back down and let Mickey explain.

No one could blame Ian for not paying attention, especially when Mickey’s hair curled around his ears like that. 

**Author's Note:**

> Commends y kudos greatly appreciated!
> 
> the title is from [Fourth of July by Fall Out Boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1j4Pf228vhE), and if you previously didn't know, that song is a MAJOR season 2 ian/mickey song. seriously: "you and I were fireworks that went off too soon, and I miss you in the June gloom too" . . . i'm just saying


End file.
